


The Fall of Grace

by Casdeanconfirmed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Falling In Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 18:58:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7769329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casdeanconfirmed/pseuds/Casdeanconfirmed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has lost his grace in a previous hunt. When the government starts a secret experiment on hunters, Dean and Cas are captured and affected. This is their story, told from Dean's POV. (This doesn't occur in any particular season. No spoilers :-) )</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall of Grace

I open my eyes to face a blank ceiling. The silence is deafening, making me sick. I want it to stop. I just want everything to stop. My brother’s in some hotel as we speak, furiously typing away on a laptop, trying to explain how to do this. The faint vibrations are still hitting my leg, text after text of information being delivered. As if I’m still hidden - as if I’m in a place where I’m able to read it. He has no idea what’s going on.  
My head is pounding. Everything hurts. Bright white lights probe my eyes and - oh, great. There’s a hospital gown on me. I know from looking around, though - this isn’t a hospital. It’s a bright white room. It’s a bloody room. Maybe I can still hear the echoes of tortured cries ringing out, if I stand still long enough.  
Feet hit the floor, and the sound bounces off of every corner. Ripping open the drawer beside the rock of a bed, discovering nothing is there - my gun, my clothes, my paint - it’s all gone. My chest grows tight, and I can feel my face growing into a grimace. I came here with somebody. With my best friend.  
Then, the man comes into the room. “Number eight has awaken.” His voice is deep. Strong. I turn to face him.  
“Does that make you nine?” He backhands me. Without a word, he grabs my arms behind my back, opening the door and leading us out.  
We walk through a beige hallway with eerily iridescent lighting. Is he taking me out of here? Fat chance of that. Something’s about to happen. I prepare to battle.  
We turn a corner, and there - there, I see it. Black, curly hair, turning another corner about thirty feet ahead. A guard holding his tan forearms. My heart drops to the ground. There was some part of me that believed he hadn’t gotten caught. Some part that hoped he was safe, hidden away in a bunker, arguing over how to get me out of here. Safe, with blankets and food and… Is that really him standing up ahead?  
“I’m here!” I yell out, trying so desperately just to get a response. A knee pushes into my back, the small of my spine being pushed in and it feels like I might crumble completely. I fall to the floor in a cry of agony. When I’m looking up, though, I see him turn. I see him running for the corner. They’re pulling him away, but his blue eyes peek around and - God, I couldn’t mistake those eyes anywhere. He’s here. Nothing else matters.  
I’m pulled up by my arms and jerked away, led back to a room a little ways down the hallway.  
I’m lied down on a bed, and I’m struggling, but the straps are something I can’t punch out of my way.  
A different man approaches me. Small stature, lab coat, a few notebooks in his arm. He’s older - all of his hair has gone gray, and he has small crows feet around his deep brown eyes. “Where am I?” I ask quietly.  
“You’re at Holly Hills,” he answers. He begins to connect wires to my temples, working quickly. A vial of some tinged yellow liquid is pulled out from a nearby cabinet. The man turns on a camera in front of the bed and begins speaking. “August 17, 2016. Patient eight. Found in outskirts of Lebanon, Pennsylvania.”  
“What are you doing?” I suddenly feel the panic setting in.  
“Relax,” he says, sticking me in the neck as I try to jerk away.  
Everything suddenly feels like it’s spinning. Tunnel vision becomes the only thing on my mind.  
“Vial number 187, stuck in jugular vein. 1...2...3…”  
‘Stop’ is the last word I manage to choke out.

The nightmare never seems to stop. I wake up to the same fucking blank ceiling, in the same room, in the same uncomfortable bed. The only things in here are a small toilet, a bed, and an empty dresser. The silence is still so loud. It pounds in my mind, demanding attention, and it’s exhausting. God only knows how long I slept. I get up to look around again, but this time, nobody walks in to say I’ve woken up. Walking around the small room, I find that they’ve put something weird around the door. “What the hell,” I whisper to myself, realizing what’s been done.  
Looking down, I find a dried line of glue with salt stuck in it. It goes from the corner of the door and makes a border around the entire room. I’m not even sure this would work to ward off ghosts - dad always forbid my brother and I from doing stuff like this, from meddling with tried and true methods. “It’s dangerous,” he’d say. “You’re gonna get yourselves killed if you take a chance on something that doesn’t work.”  
The door has a small hatch that looks like the kind prisoners peek through on television. When I try to open it, it’s completely locked up. It can only be opened from the outside. I go and lay back down, mostly because I feel like I’ve contracted the flu. In the past 24 hours, I’ve fought several ghosts, been kidnapped, and been injected with God-only-knows-what. The thought passes that I might die, and I’m caught between wanting to just let go or fighting with everything I have. After all… he’s still here. The only thought that rings through clear as a bell, cuts straight through the crap going through my mind. He’s. Still. Here. I can’t give up on him.  
A small, ground-level hatch in the door opens, and a tray is pushed in. I sit up to look at the utter slop that has been put in front of me. It’s an off-green color and smells like bad meatloaf. There’s also a small glass of water and two little pink pills. I decide to eat, just for the fact that my stomach is killing me. I don’t think these people would go to all the trouble of keeping me alive and giving me injections just to end up poisoning me. I don’t take the pills, though. I let this happen to us. Whatever pain medication there is, I don’t deserve - and if it’s something else, I don’t want it anyway.  
Days are spent this way. Lay down, be fed once a day, stay in your room and be quiet. If I get too loud, they play a screeching noise over a speaker in my room that hurts my ears. Sometimes I scream just to get the noise to play. Just so I can listen to something other than my own disgusting thoughts. I’m starting to pound my own fists off the wall until they bleed. There’s no contact. Nobody to talk to. The only thing I can do is sit a scold myself for hours on end. What if I’m never found? My panicky thoughts are the worst, most torturing things. There are thoughts that hold me captive for such long periods of time. Being caught between ‘why would you let this happen’ and ‘you’re never going to talk to anyone you love again’ are the particularly terrifying bouts. The fighter in me wants to say I’m going to make it, he wants to keep fighting and kill everyone in his path. He says to hold onto hope. It’s kind of funny how fear took over my usually steel mind as soon as nobody else was here. 

Today I woke up and stood up, expecting to go through the same routine. I think it’s been 28 days of the same thing, give or take. I’m starting to lose track. I haven’t been out of that damn room at all. No matter how hard I tried to fight my way out, there was no way. The door never even opened.  
Well, today, when I stood up, creaky hinges echoed through the corners. I spun to see a large guard facing me. “Number 8 has awaken.”  
I ran. I ran as hard and as fast as I could. And I was caught five feet outside of my room. Punched and pulled up.  
As we walked through the hallway, I looked carefully for any sign of him. Of his curly charcoal hair. Of his tan skin, or of his pink cheeks, or of his blue eyes. He was nowhere. I’m starting to lose hope that he’s even still here, as much as I hate myself for thinking it. I’m not sure how much of this he can withstand. He’s strong as hell, but losing his grace took such a toll on him… Does he know that he has to eat? That he has to sleep? We were regulating his schedule before this. Will he treat himself like a human if these people won’t? I don’t know how much longer I can withstand this.  
My head is still pounding with all of the noise inside of it. I’m so scared for us.  
I’m brought to the same room, the same man greets me, and I’m given the same vial. He says the same things and sticks me in the same place. It’s uncomforting how similar the days are becoming. Even if there’s a change in schedule, you already know what’s going on - you’re just on a different routine. It’s like switching from Day A to Day B. I get the same tunnel vision, the same pounding, spinning feeling, the same panic. And I wake up again in the same. fucking. room. Staring at the same blank ceiling. 

Days go by, and I’m stuck in the Day A routine again. I wake up, I get fed, I scream, I hit my fists off the same bloody spot on the wall, and I lay down. Then, I repeat it. I’m still not taking the pills, which they don’t seem to mind. I’ve come to the conclusion that they must be some mild pain pills or sleeping pills, because they’d probably just crush up any ‘important’ ones in my food. I tried not eating for a few days to see what would happen. I woke up with an IV in my arm on the third day of my hunger strike. They’re definitely trying to keep me alive.  
I think I counted 29 days when the routine was broken. I woke up to the screeching sound over my speaker, but it seemed to be in the hallway as well. Like a sort of alarm. I could hear people screaming over the sound, and it’s unusually hot.  
When I get up, the floor is almost burning to touch with bare feet. I hear guns firing in the hallway, men barking orders. It sounded like they were being backed down a hallway somehow. I’m getting ready to fight. Whatever is scaring them this much must be big. My heart is pounding, and I really just want all of the noise to stop. Non-stop noise is starting to haunt me. I miss the sound of the Impala zooming down the road 20 miles over the limit, my brother’s laughter booming through the car, AC/DC blaring over the radio speakers. I might really never hear these things again.  
It’s at this point that the giant iron door to my room swings open with such force that I step back, startled. Heat floods the room. I hear the guns hit the floor and men running. The door across the hall is open, too. I realize that all of the doors are open. Hundreds of people are running through the hallways, lost and confused, fear and excitement simultaneously washing over their faces.  
The hallway is on fire. Not just a little bit, either. The fire is as tall as I am, roaring and blazing. Has there been an explosion?  
That’s when I see blue eyes peek around the corner of my doorway. They’re both determined and afraid, and yet, as soon as they see me, they relax. I relax, too, because I know who the blue eyes belong to.  
“Cas.”  
He walks forward, nothing but a hospital gown covering him. His dark curls are completely disheveled, a severe bedhead eating him. He has dark bags under his eyes and his usually tan and pink skin has faded to a sickly pale color. A beard consumes most of his face. He’s still absolutely breath taking, though, and I feel almost in awe at him walking towards me. I’m so relieved. He’s still here, and he’s okay.  
I practically fall into his arms, breathing in his musky mint smell, shoving my hands into his greasy tangles. His warm breath hits my neck. I’m grounded for the first time in months. He pulls back, looking deeply into my eyes.  
And, with one word, my entire world is silenced.  
“Dean.”

**Author's Note:**

> I promise that the next chapter will be longer and not move as quickly! I just needed to get a good beginning established for the rest of the story :-)


End file.
